Philip Levine

Coming Close - Poem by Philip Levine

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Take this quiet woman, she has beenstanding before a polishing wheelfor over three hours, and she lackstwenty minutes before she can takea lunch break. Is she a woman?Consider the arms as they pressthe long brass tube against the buffer,they are striated along the triceps,the three heads of which clearly show.Consider the fine dusting of dark downabove the upper lip, and the beadsof sweat that run from under the redkerchief across the brow and are wipedaway with a blackening wrist bandin one odd motion a child might maketo say No! No! You must come closerto find out, you must hang your tieand jacket in one of the lockersin favor of a black smock, you mustbe prepared to spend shift after shifthauling off the metal trays of stock,bowing first, knees bent for a purchase, then lifting with a gasp, the first word of tenderness between the two of you,then you must bring new trays of dullunpolished tubes. You must feed her,as they say in the language of the place.Make no mistake, the place has a language,and if by some luck the power were cut,the wheel slowed to a stop so that yousuddenly saw it was not a solid objectbut so many separate bristles formingin motion a perfect circle, she would turnto you and say, "Why?" Not the old whyof why must I spend five nights a week?Just, "Why?" Even if by some magic you knew, you wouldn't dare speakfor fear of her laughter, which nowyou have anyway as she places the fivetapering fingers of her filthy handon the arm of your white shirt to markyou for your own, now and forever.